The Pinewood Falls Conspiracy
by lux in tenebris
Summary: When Melissa travels to Pinewood Falls to escape the pressures of highsociety life, she discovers that the little Rocky Mountain town is not as peaceful as it first appears. What could possibly be causing the disturbing attacks up at the falls?
1. Prologue

**_Prologue _**

A man dressed in black raised the binoculars to his eyes, looking through the windshield of his car, an old gray Toyota. He peered through, craning his neck to watch as a woman came out of the outlet store in the mall, following her carefully with his eyes. The woman, a tall brunette wearing a leather jacket and jeans, slipped into her car and slowly began to drive away.

Only a few seconds later, the man with the binoculars cranked his own vehicle and began to follow.

* * *

Alison Temple sighed in frustration at the New York traffic, wanting badly to honk her horn just like all the others cars impatiently stuck in the traffic jam. She resisted, knowing how annoying the edgy beeping could get. Sometimes it took an hour to get home. Not a night went by when she didn't run into some sort of accident or big ordeal, and any large 'happening' was bound to stop traffic. She blamed it on those stupid people who thought they needed to stop and stare at the incident. Didn't they realize how rude that was? Weren't more than a few people more than slightly eager to get home and go to bed? She was obviously the only one that was tired after working the whole day. 

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw the familiar gray Toyota pickup. Its tiny, gleaming roof stuck out like a sore thumb amidst sleek cars and the occasional minivan.

Hadn't she seen that car behind her far too many times for comfort?

* * *

Jerrod Hanson stopped the fork halfway to his mouth as he stared at the TV screen. The evening edition of the news was always gruesome and nearly every night sported a disgusting display of criminal cases. He was used to hearing about rapes, but this one caught his eye. 

It wasn't just one case; it was multiple and had been going on for weeks, supposedly. They even had a name for him, the "Rose Rapist", because of his habit of leaving a red rose near every victim as a sign that he'd been the perpetrator. He had a ninja-like appearance because of his apparel: all black clothing, even a mask over his face, and this made his presence in New York all the scarier. Apparently they'd been trying to catch him for months, and he was beginning to step up his crimes in the past few days. Once every couple of nights, they said.

Suzy Little, the news anchor for NBC's evening broadcast, went on to say that the Rose Rapist had several specific habits they've been able to match with every single rape he'd committed. All of his victims seemed to work at malls or outlet shops downtown that closed late at night, and they all lived in the outskirt suburban neighborhoods.

For a few seconds, Jerrod had dismissed it as a usual story and was about to flip to something more uplifting when they showed a picture of this guy, the Rose Rapist.

Oddly, he looked very similar to his good friend's father, Keith Powell.

He shrugged the thought off and began flipping through the channels.

Having decided on a movie instead of grave newscasts, he sank back onto his couch and kept his eyes on the television.

He heard the rumble of a car puttering down the quiet streets of the neighborhood, and through the front windows he saw headlights turn into the next driveway over. That would be Alison Temple, getting home late as always from her job at the outlet mall. He always worried about her coming home at eleven every night, not only because she was gorgeous but because of the awful stories he _had _heard on the news about women coming home from work late.

Maybe watching NBC wasn't good for his health, after all. It made his imagination run wild.

Nevertheless, a few minutes later, when he heard thumping from the direction of Alison's house, he jumped to his feet and decided to go check it out. Besides, he always wanted a reason to go and talk to her.

As he stepped out of the house, he heard a mighty crash from next door. Frowning, Jerrod jogged over the grass and onto the pavement in front of Alison's.

Peering around the corner, his eyes widened. Her door was hanging open, the motion-sensor porch lights were on and glaring, and more crashing sounded from inside. His heart pounding, he followed the sidewalk up to the door and onto the porch.

"Allie?" he called her name, a frown still darkening his eyes. "Alison, are you in there?" He knew she was, because he'd seen her walk in but hadn't heard her leave. But what was going on?

"Jerrod!" Her voice sounded far away and held a note of desperation; he knew it was coming from the inside.

He sprinted into the house, shouting her name, his veins pumping adrenaline with each heartbeat. Something was not right.

A muffled response came from the hallway to his left.

All around him things lay in disarray, he noted as he jogged past the overturned couch, lamp, and shattered glass. Signs of a struggle.

Another shout, but it became muffled again.

He followed the noise into a bedroom, and nearly gasped at what he saw.

A man was bent over Alison's form, knife to her throat. In her mouth he'd stuffed a piece of cloth. A gag.

Without thinking, Jerrod took a dive and knocked the black-clad man over, grabbing the knife to keep it from jabbing Alison. In his lunge, it pierced his upper arm, and he looked at it in nearly numb silence, expecting any moment to feel the sting. In the corner of her eyes, he saw she was sitting up, sobs wracking her body as she tried to claw the gag out of her mouth.

Pain shot through his arm, and Jerrod cried out as he saw blood gashing from the knife wound. It was as if it had taken a few seconds for his brain to register what had happen.

He could feel his nerves on fire, and panic flooded through his system. Only a split second before the man came at him again, he saw a large clay pottery vase sitting on a decorative dais in the corner.

He dodged the man quickly, but the knife caught the very edge of his hip, slicing into flesh yet again. Trying to block out the pain and Alison's screams, he relentlessly dragged himself over to the corner.

Suddenly Jerrod felt as if he was watching the scene from the outside, his mind spinning with adrenaline and fear. Finally he was able to grab the vase, and the severed muscles in his right forearm screamed in pain with a voice all their own.

He whirled around, pottery vase in his arms.

Agony flooded through his midsection, and he dropped the vase and grabbed the hilt of the knife in an attempt to dislodge it. Unable to summon the strength, he collapsed against the wall.

Although his vision was clouding, he saw Alison grab the large piece of pottery from where he'd let it fall.

The next thing he knew, it was being shattered against the back of the man's head, and Jerrod watched in a haze as his eyes rolled disturbingly into the back of his head.

He dropped to the ground.

Jerrod used the last of his strength to pull the dark mask off the man's face, and his heart nearly stopped at what he saw.

The 'Rose Rapist', the very man he'd seen reported on television.

Not only that, but it was undoubtedly Keith Powell.

* * *

"You killed our father," Shawn Powell nearly shrieked, grief and anger written unmistakably over his face. 

Jerrod felt that this was neither the time nor the place to mention that _he _hadn't been the one to kill the man, it had been Alison and in self-defense.

It was in the way he spoke, the way he pinched the bridge of his nose, the way his mouth formed a tight line whenever he wasn't speaking. Braiden wasn't in a forgiving mood, not now and not ever.

His brother, Braiden, didn't look too incredibly merciful at the moment, either.

In fact, they both were glaring very murderously at him now.

"Your father was a rapist!" Jerrod said, his head lolling to the side on the hospital bed, not relenting. No matter what his friends thought about his deed, he knew he could not have done anything else. "The man was wanted for the rapes and murders of twelve women! Alison Temple would have been his thirteenth!"

"That man is not our father," Shawn Powell ground his teeth, his jaw clenched tight with stubbornness. "Keith Powell would never do anything like that."

The nurse, having heard tidbits of the heated exchange coming from inside, stepped into the hospital room with a stern expression on her face. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, or I'll be forced. You're causing a disturbance, and you're definitely not helping Mr. Hanson's wounds to heal. Come back when you're in an encouraging mood."

Jerrod sent an appreciative glance in the kind woman's direction, but he didn't miss the Powell brothers' glares as they stalked out of the room. They weren't done with him yet, and he knew it.

* * *

**Five Years Later…**

"This is our chance," Shawn Powell gestured to a huge three-ring binder sitting on the table. It had a blank cover with no labeling, but he knew exactly what it contained. Every word was his own, and he'd been working on it for years. "I have connections that have already agreed to pull through for me. There are things that could go wrong and ways it might not turn out, but Braiden… if it _does _work out, think of the wrongs that will be set right. This is our chance for justice, for revenge."

Braiden frowned and waited for his brother to continue. He had to admit the words _justice_ and _revenge_ appealed to him.

"He plans on running for presidency, you know. He has since he was young. And one of his coworkers said he's mentioned it before; it's not a dream that he plans to let down," Shawn said, and then, flashing a grin, he said, "And I have ways to get him into the Oval Office… and then out again."

The other big man looked as if he was confused, but he tugged the stack of papers over to him and began flipping through the typed sheets. "What have you in mind?"

"Something called _blackmail_."

* * *

**Ten Years Later…**

Shawn Powell sat in front of his desk, his hand propping up his forehead as he looked down at the letter he was writing.

This was it. The plan was finally coming into existence, at least from the president's point of view. Oh, they had been plotting it for years and years, but now President Hanson was going to realize that his Oval Office fantasy wasn't all that he'd anticipated.

_Dear Mr. President,_

_I was walking about my town one day, and I found myself strolling by the town's Methodist church. A group of little children was sitting with their Sunday school teacher out on the lawn, and while I was walking I heard them start singing a song. Perhaps you recognize it, it goes like this: "He's got the whole world in His hands." Of course, since I happen to know you're a Christian, I also know that you believe this song is talking about God and His hands._

_And this song got me to thinking that I might very well know how He feels. I happen to be in a very similar situation, you see. In the same way God supposedly holds the entire earth in His hands, I hold this entire country in my hands._

_Because you are new to the presidency, I am going to be merciful, unlike you. No, you were never gracious. But me, I am giving you quite some time to figure out a solution for this; but I have to assure you, there is only one. _

_In fourteen days, if you haven't acknowledged this letter in the way I suggest, you will begin to see the toll my plan has on your country. I will give you no more information other than that._

_I'll be kind and let you start negotiations. You set the ransom amount, and I will tell you if it is satisfactory. _

_Being a somewhat kind and sympathetic person, I'll also give you even another freebee—I assure you there will be no more. If you respond to my letter within seven days—in the way that I instruct, of course—I will delay my plan until we have agreed on a price. If I find that you have taken advantage of my nice side and are making weak attempts at trying to find a satisfactory price, my plan will begin immediately._

_Here is how you will respond to my letter: on the evening edition of the national news, approximately fifteen minutes into the show, the audio will appear to have problems, and in turn the screen will go blank for a few seconds. During these few seconds, your voice will be heard speaking a single amount: the amount of money you will pay me. And I will reply with a letter much like this one._

_If you have any questions, speak them in those few seconds._

_People will think your voice is simply another station interfering with their program, and I trust that any questions asked will be answered accordingly._

_I hope, for the good of your nation, you will consider this letter. For, as I said, in fourteen days you will begin to see that you've made a very grave mistake._

_Powell_

Meanwhile, Braiden was following the plan as they'd discussed, and had been for the past ten years. This was going to work, now that Hanson had achieved his goal to become president. Shawn found it increasingly difficult to quench the excitement brewing in his stomach.


	2. Chapter 1

**_Chapter One_**

_Melissa stepped off the path, her feet crunching the dried leaves underfoot. She'd been curious about what was in the woods for years. She could hear the soft lapping of the lake water on its shores, and the rustle of the breeze through the leaves of the trees. The forest looked almost like something out of a fairy tale; it was beautiful and scary at the same time._

_Suddenly she heard another rustle behind her, and she was sure it was not her own feet. Spinning, she gasped as she saw the end of a cloak as it whipped around the edge of a tree just a few feet away. Sprinting, she whirled around to see who—or what—it was. Looking up, she saw the brown fabric lash around another tree. She ran to that one also, but this time it was gone.

* * *

_

Startling at the sound of a sharp knock, Melissa tossed her sketchbook aside, kicking it underneath her bed as she went to go answer the door to her cottage.

The breeze blew the door inward, along with a lock of long, dark curls and the smell of a very expensive perfume. _Michelle_. She stepped aside, allowing her sister to step in. _Oh, but Michelle never steps, _Melissa thought, holding back a sneer. _She swaggers._

"You could have simply shouted for me to come in," Michelle said with her nose to the air, strutting snobbishly into her room in a way that was so model-like it was disgusting. A new, silky dress swished around her legs as she walked, the garment clinging to her curves tighter than a bathing suit—and just as revealing as any bikini. She smiled as she saw her sister noticing her attire and said, "Mother said we'll be expecting a few guests in a half hour. She suggests you wear your best dress."

"How on earth did you make it around the lake with your new dress on?" Melissa fought to keep her voice in a question instead of a retort. "The cement is wet." It had rained just that afternoon, which was what had kept her in her cottage.

"I took the golf cart," her sister shrugged. "But you'll have to walk, I suppose. Keep yourself on the dry parts of the concrete." And with that, Michelle flounced out the door as quickly as she had come.

Melissa pictured the "golf cart" in her mind… it wasn't even true to its name. The thing was so fancy it could have been a mini car with no metal siding. Though her sister, without a doubt, would never settle for less.

Of course, she was on her way to her own bungalow, but she had spent the night up at the mansion with their parents the evening before. She'd insisted on it when it started raining at dinner, saying she couldn't possibly make it back to her cottage without ending up like a "drowned rat"—_Lord forbid! Not a drowned rat!_ Melissa, of course, was not _even_ allowed one of the lowly workers' gators to get across the lake. She'd had to walk.

The year the twins had turned eighteen, Michelle had requested a rather 'special' birthday present. She wanted to live in the old bungalows across the lake with their own bathrooms and kitchens. They were adults now and didn't want to live in the mansion anymore. Melissa especially wanted her own place, but never dared mention this.

And so they'd had the crews come in to fix up the cottages just to Michelle's liking. Melissa hadn't had a choice in what she wanted hers to look like, but was satisfied just to be out of the house and away from her demanding parents. That way, she could play the piano without anybody knowing about it.

Oh, she'd been playing the piano since she could remember, finding ways to teach herself, even staying after school with the music teacher and playing the grand piano in the main hallway in the mansion when nobody was home.

But Michelle provided barrier after barrier—and not just when it came to music. She hated the school bus and the runny-nosed kids at school. When the two twin sisters turned twelve, they were pulled out of school and started to be home schooled.

Now Melissa's mother could see first hand how 'dumb' she was.

She'd always been told so, at least by her mother, Lilly Manchelli. Melissa was stupid and Michelle was smart. Melissa was ugly and Michelle was pretty. Melissa was without talent and Michelle was beyond gifted. Even though they were born at the same time, they weren't identical twins. And the only reason Melissa could match with their favoritism was that Michelle was the one that appeared in the world first, even though she came only minutes afterward.

Never had Melissa understood why her mother called her an idiot when she got straight A's. Knowledge was the thing she was good at; she had a knack for memorization.

The minute her fingers touched the keys she knew that this was her talent. She'd never thought that she had a talent for school, but even if she had confidence when it came to knowledge, the piano created a warm feeling in her gut more than anything else had in the world, other than watching the kids' theatre perform in the school auditorium.

As for art, she'd been doodling in her notebooks since she was in school. She always loved to draw what she thought far-away places looked like, creating her own world and unable to resist the draw of _someplace else_. It didn't matter _what _place, as long as it took her away from _home_.

Melissa tugged herself from her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present. Sighing, she slipped into her closet to pick out her best dress, wondering what guests would be at the mansion that night. Of course, Michelle's _dahling_ boyfriend—as her mother said it, Southern accent and all—would be there. It seemed he was at the table at every dinner. No, no. He was with Michelle every waking moment.

She pulled her wine-colored dress down over her head, the one her mother had bought for her, saying, "You need something besides that disgraceful white lace to wear to dinner." Actually, Melissa despised dresses altogether; but, as always, she would do _anything_ to keep her mother from taking a knife to her.

She slipped the matching shoes onto her feet, muttering at the high heels. How was she going to make it around the lake—in these heels—in time for dinner? She swallowed and shrugged into her coat thinking all the while about what she would do when she came back to her cottage. Already she was planning the time she didn't have to spend with her parents at the mansion.

As she shut the door to her cabin and started walking through the trees, she couldn't resist the temptation to let her imagination run wild. Instead of a cement path weaving in and out of the damp tree trunks, she saw a warm orchard full of lively autumn colors. Instead of the rotten leaves coating the muddy ground in brown tones, she pictured vibrant hues of yellow, red, and orange. In the next moment, she was reminded of the picture she'd drawn during the last winter, something that resembled J.R.R. Tolkien's Rivendell.

Her mind filled with these pictures and thoughts, the walk to the mansion had gone by swiftly and soon she hurried through the oak double doors into the big house.

She'd followed the trail twisting and turning alongside the peaceful lake until she'd reached her parents' mansion on the other side. Her parents were filthy rich, and they owned the lake and all of the buildings around it. The outbuildings were mostly for the workers. Of course the other people were not to bother the family and provided their own meals, other than the cooks.

As for the mansion, it was gigantic and had several floors. Every hallway branched off of the main hallway, which was three stories high, and those hallways in turn sported several rooms themselves. Even the second and third stories begun at the main hallway; the two upper floors had balconies that wrapped around the inside of the hall and contained staircases that were used to access the balconies and the other floors.

"Our guest is expected in ten minutes," said a hard voice from further down the big hall, speaking just as soon as she'd turned from shutting the huge oak double doors behind her. "You're punctual tonight. Interesting."

"Good evening, Mother," Melissa breathed patiently, having long learned to ignore her mother's comments and her own anger in response, instead being patient and pretending like the words hadn't even been spoken. She resisted the temptation to reach down and rub her already sore ankles. She couldn't imagine the walk home that night when the sun was down, knowing she would step in countless puddles without being able to see. "Who are our guests tonight?"

"Why, two of them are already here. Why don't you go into the dining room; Michelle's already chatting with them," Mrs. Manchelli said, her shoes clicking on the hardwood floor. She threw a warning over her back, "Behave yourself."

"As if I hadn't ever before," Melissa muttered to herself, and she turned to walk into the dining room. Richard, Michelle's boyfriend, was sitting with her one side of the large table, while another familiar-looking man sat on the other.

Surprised to see this particular person there, Melissa said cheerfully to him, "Good evening, Eric." She turned toward her sister's boyfriend.  
"Nice to see you again, Richard." She sat down in a chair just a few seats away from Eric. She turned toward him and said, "I haven't seen you in quite a while. Are you back for a while or just for a visit?"

"My job brought me here for at least six months," Eric answered. Eric had worked for her father a few years before and ate dinner every Friday at their house. He'd switched jobs just the year before and moved to New York. His previous interest had been in Michelle, of course. The man was tall and handsome, but she'd never taken interest in him. Even though he had impeccable manners, an engaging smile, and wasn't exactly _penniless_—in somewhat the way her _parents _weren't—she knew he wasn't for her.

"Well, it's nice to have you back," Melissa said with a smile, even though she couldn't have cared if Eric had returned. Years and years of classes taken on manners and etiquette and many lectures from her mother had taught her just how to behave around guests.

The dinners they invited guests to were only to maintain status quo. Their social position was very high, and the Manchelli family went to great lengths to see that it stayed that way. The twins had grown up accustomed to sitting quietly at the table and engaging in polite conversation when necessary. Michelle especially enjoyed being sophisticated, but if Melissa had a choice she would be snuggled on the couch in front of a fire, not wearing a dress but a baggy T-shirt and sweat pants, covered in a blanket.

"Thank you," Eric said, darting a quick glance at Michelle then returning his gaze to Melissa. "So I haven't heard what you've been doing lately."

"Well," she started, unsure of what to say. Nobody had taken any particular interest in what _she_ was doing, it was always her sister. "I'm really not doing much these days."

"Ugh, _please_," Michelle said, tossing an exasperated look at Richard. "You must be doing _something _all holed up in your cabin for days on end."

Melissa licked her lips and was about to answer—though she didn't know what with—when her father walked briskly into the room.

"Well, I see we have some early guests," Brian Manchelli smiled briefly before sitting down at the head of the table. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier."

Eric stood up quickly and shook her father's hand. "Don't apologize; I hope it wasn't a bother for me to come a bit untimely."

"No problem at all," Mr. Manchelli shrugged, nodding in his usual greeting to Richard. He turned to Michelle, but he spoke to both the girls and even the other two men, "Scott Kincaid is coming tonight. I guess he's leaving for Colorado in a few weeks, so we wanted to have him before he leaves."

"Is that all we're having?" Michelle asked with a frown. Normally they had more guests than what they did.

Mr. Manchelli shrugged. "Your mother felt it was better to have just the closer family friends over tonight." He beamed at Eric. "It's great to have you back here. I expect you'll be coming back in a few weeks to eat dinner with us again?"

"Of course, if you'd like to have me," Eric replied. He turned toward Melissa again. "You were saying…"

Again she was about to speak in reply when Mrs. Manchelli entered the room with a _whoosh_, Scott Kincaid trailing behind her. Melissa frowned, having not heard the doorbell, and then smiled at the irony of being interrupted twice when she had really actually _hadn't_ wanted to finish her sentence.

Mr. Manchelli stood up to shake Scott's hand. "Nice to see you, Mr. Kincaid."

"Call me Scott," he said with a grin.

Melissa couldn't help but smile at his unkempt appearance. As usual, his dark hair was messy and out of control, although anybody who knew the man also understood that he thought his hairdo was quite adequate and could care less what others thought. His tie did not match his outfit, and she suspected he'd not put it on correctly. His grin was mischievous, like he was hiding something and was very excited about it. He did not look proper and classy, yet he'd grown up in a home every bit as sophisticated and well-to-do as her own. _What his mother must think, _she thought to herself, but then remembered, _not every mother is like mine._

Scott nodded to everyone around him, and even though his smile was only a simple lift of the corners of his mouth, it shone in his eyes as his eyes lingered on every one of them. He sat casually in the chair next to Eric and at once engaged the man in conversation. Mrs. Manchelli floated toward the table and sat at the end across from her husband, and minutes later an elegant three-course dinner was served.

* * *

"Are you walking back to your cottage in this weather?" Eric asked of Melissa in the main hallway, his voice echoing off the walls and the two-story high ceiling. 

She shrugged. "I was going to ask Michelle if I could ride with her in the golf cart. If not, I might get one of the workers' golf carts." The dark sky was pouring a mixture of rain and snow, and she knew she would never be able to walk.

"Richard and I are going to go out for a while," Michelle said, having heard her statement. "And I'll need the golf cart when I get back." In other words, her sister was saying that she could not use the vehicle.

Melissa sighed and moved down the hall toward the rear double doors. "I guess I'll use a gator."

"The _workers'_ golf carts don't have roofs. You'll get wet," Eric protested, hurrying after her. "I'll take you around to where you park your car. You'll have a way shorter distance to walk that way. I'll even walk with you, if you'd like."

She was about to refuse his offer, but thought about driving a roofless golf cart in the cold with the sleet coming down on her head. She turned toward him and said politely, "That would be wonderful if you could drive me to my parking space."

"Let's go, then," Eric said, flipping his keys out of his pocket.

They ran into Scott Kincaid in the foyer as he was about to leave, and he turned to smile at her just before he went out the door. "Nice seeing you again, Melissa. Oh, and by the way, I left my Colorado address with your father, in hopes you and your family might want to come and visit one of these days, even though I know you're all very busy. Anyway, thanks for having me."

"Why this sudden move to the Rockies?" Melissa asked, mustering her boldness. Sure, she'd known the guy since she was little more than a girl, yet in the past few years she'd hardly even seen him. It was hard to start another conversation with him, and especially more awkward considering there were those mysterious, secretive years between them.

"Well, my uncle recently passed away, and he owned a ranch up in the mountains. The ranch is huge, and I used to go up there every summer to spend time with him. I used to tell him nearly every day how much I loved his ranch, so he put me in charge of it in his will. The place is great. It's sort of a hotel as well, and you meet all sorts of people out there," Scott explained, jangling the car keys in his hand.

"I see," Melissa nodded. She shrugged into her coat. "Well, good luck with your drive home on these roads. Eric was kind enough to give me a dry ride back to my lodge in this weather."

And with a wave, he was gone.

Scott had been one of the family's friends since she remembered. They had the same social standing and Michelle, Melissa, Scott, and the other well-off kids always sat together at the social gatherings. His mother had recently passed away, having had breast cancer for ten years, and his father was not taking it well. As a result, in the months past the family had turned away from all of the social parties and she hadn't seen him or his father in a long time.

Eric chivalrously opened the door to his Porsche for her and ushered her into it. Melissa smiled and ran her eyes over the interior of the car as he slid into the driver's seat. "You like my ride?"

She nodded with a grin as he revved up the motor and sped out of the circle driveway. She had to admit to herself that Eric wasn't any different than all of the other 'rich kids' in their social circle. He liked being rich, and he was proud of all he had. But she knew what secrets most families harbored behind their perfect façade, and she wasn't proud of her family. Her mother was not the kind person she seemed to be at social gatherings. What was Eric really like, underneath the fancy car and huge mansion, the clothing pressed to perfection?

"So you never told me what you've been doing lately," Eric continued.

Melissa sighed. What could it hurt to tell him? Her family wasn't around. "I draw." That was the safest to admit.

His interest visibly sparked. "What do you draw?"

"Whatever catches my attention," she said, answering shortly in hopes that he would forget it and move onto a different subject.

But he seemed to have different ideas in mind. "Like what?"

_I can't tell him that I draw and imagine different worlds, he'll think I'm nuts, _she thought. "Sometimes I conjure pictures in my imagination after reading a book or watching a movie, or seeing a place that's beautiful to me. Just anything, I suppose."

"How come I didn't know this about you?" Eric asked. "I never knew you were the artistic type." He paused. "I guess I didn't know _what_ type you were. Why don't you show other people your drawings?"

"Because I've never told anyone before," she answered quietly.

Eric frowned. "Why wouldn't you tell anyone? I know you're good. You're good at everything you do."

Melissa shook her head, not wanting to continue the conversation. No, she wasn't good at a lot of things, and her parents made sure she knew it. Michelle was the one with all the talents.

The car pulled up into her driveway beside her car. She only had to follow the short path to her cottage, and she was thankful that she hadn't had to walk any more. "Thanks, Eric, for the ride. I appreciate it." She got out of the car on her own and shut the door before she could hear him reply. She hurried down the path, not knowing why she was suddenly afraid.

The drawing in her sketchbook was of mountains. For some reason, she'd been thinking about stretching landscapes and jagged peaks stretching up into the sky. She hadn't known what sparked her interest, or what had even inspired her to draw them.

But now stood before her a black-and-white drawing of tree-littered hills and a town nestled in a valley between two humongous swells of earth.

And that night she dreamed of pine trees, mountains, and a small mining town with dirt streets…


End file.
